The Life List Read online

  It’s Catherine I fear.

  A graduate of Penn’s prestigious Wharton School of Business and a member of the U.S. synchronized swim team swim during the Olympic Games of 1992, my sister-in-law has the brains, the tenacity, and the competitive edge to run three companies simultaneously.

  For the past twelve years she’s held the title of vice president of Bohlinger Cosmetics and been Mother’s right hand. Without Catherine, Bohlinger Cosmetics would have remained a small-but-prosperous cottage industry. But Catherine came aboard and convinced Mother to expand her line. In early 2002, she got wind of a new episode Oprah Winfrey would be launching called “My Favorite Things.” For twenty-one weeks straight, Catherine sent exquisitely wrapped packages of Bohlinger’s organic soaps and lotions to Harpo Studios, along with photos and articles about the all-natural, ecofriendly company. Just as she was preparing her twenty-second shipment, Harpo Studios called. Oprah had chosen Bohlinger’s Organic Black Tea and Grape Seed Facial Mask as one of her favorite things.

  The episode aired and business exploded. Suddenly every spa and high-end department store demanded the Bohlinger line. Manufacturing quadrupled in the first six months. Three major companies offered outrageous sums to purchase the company outright, but Catherine convinced Mother not to sell. Instead, she opened shops in New York, LA, Dallas, and Miami, and two years later expanded to the overseas markets. Though I’d love to think my marketing prowess had something to do with it, the company became a multimillion-dollar enterprise largely because of Catherine Humphries-Bohlinger.

  It’s undeniable. Catherine is the queen bee, and as director of marketing I’ve been one of her loyal worker bees. But in a matter of minutes, our roles will be reversed. I’ll become Catherine’s boss—a thought that terrifies the bejesus out of me.

  Last June, when my mother was in the throes of treatment and her presence at Bohlinger Cosmetics was a rarity, Catherine called me into her office.

  “It’s important that you learn the nuts and bolts of the operation, Brett,” she said, perched behind her cherry desk with her hands folded in front of her. “As much as we’d like to deny it, our lives are going to change. You need to be prepared for your role.”

  She thought my mother would die! How could she assume the worst? But Catherine was a realist, and she was rarely wrong. A chill came over me.

  “Naturally, all of your mother’s shares will go to you, once she passes. You are, after all, her only daughter and the sole child in the business. You’ve also been her business partner longer than anyone else.”

  A lump rose in my throat. My mother used to boast that I was still in diapers when I joined the company. She’d hoist me into my baby backpack and off we’d go, pitching her soaps and lotions to local shops and farmer’s markets.

  “And as the majority shareholder,” Catherine continued, “you’re entitled to her position as CEO.”

  Something in her cool, measured tone made me wonder if she resented this. And who could blame her? The woman was brilliant. And me—I just happened to be Elizabeth’s daughter.

  “I’m going to help you prepare—not that you aren’t already.” She tapped open her computer calendar. “How about we start tomorrow, eight A.M. sharp.” It wasn’t a question, it was an order.

  So each morning I’d pull up a chair next to Catherine’s and listen as she explained overseas business transactions, international tax codes, and the company’s day-to-day operations. She sent me to a weeklong seminar at Harvard Business School bringing me up to date on the latest management techniques, and enrolled me in online workshops on topics ranging from streamlining budgets to employee relations. Though many times I felt overwhelmed, I never once considered bowing out. I’ll be honored to wear the crown that was once my mother’s. I just hope my sister-in-law doesn’t come to resent each time she’s asked to help polish it.

  Mother’s driver drops me off at 200 E. Randolph Street and I gaze up at the granite-and-steel structure of Chicago’s Aon Center. Office space in this place must be outrageous. Obviously, Mother’s attorney is no slouch. I make my way to the thirty-second floor, and at precisely ten thirty Claire, an attractive redhead, leads me into Mr. Midar’s office, where my brothers and their wives have already gathered at a rectangular mahogany table.

  “Can I get you some coffee, Ms. Bohlinger?” she asks. “Or perhaps tea? Bottled water?”

  “No, thank you.” I find a seat beside Shelley and look around. Mr. Midar’s office is an impressive concoction of old and new. The space itself reeks of modernity, all marble and glass, but he’s softened it with Oriental rugs and several key pieces of antique furniture. The effect is soothing lucidity.

  “Nice place,” I say.

  “Isn’t it?” Catherine says from across the table. “I adore Stone architecture.”

  “Same here. And there’s enough granite in this one to open a quarry.”

  She chuckles as if I’m a little tot who’s just made a funny. “I meant Stone, as in Edward Durell Stone,” she says. “He was the architect.”

  “Oh, right.” Is there nothing this woman doesn’t know? But rather than impressing me, Catherine’s intelligence makes me feel ignorant, her strength makes me feel weak, and her competence makes me feel as useless as a pair of Spanx on Victoria Beckham. I love Catherine dearly, but it’s a love that’s tempered by intimidation—whether the result of my insecurity or Catherine’s arrogance, I’m not sure. Mom once told me I had all of Catherine’s intellect but only a smidgen of her self-confidence. Then she whispered, “And thank God for that.” It was the only time I ever heard Mother speak ill of Catherine the Great, but that single, uncensored statement gives me enormous comfort.

  “It was originally built for Standard Oil Company,” she continues, as if I’m interested. “Back in ’73, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Jay rolls his chair back, behind Catherine’s line of vision, and mimes an exaggerated yawn. But Joad seems riveted by his wife’s prater.

  “Very good, dear. Third tallest building in Chicago,” Joad says, looking at Catherine, as if for confirmation. Though my big bro is one of the city’s most esteemed young architects, I sense that he, too, is a bit intimidated by the horsepower of the woman he married. “It’s surpassed only by the Trump Tower and Willis Tower.”

  Catherine looks at me. “Willis Tower—you know, the former Sears Tower.”

  “The Sears Tower?” I ask, rubbing my chin in mock befuddlement. “Why would a department store need an entire tower?”

  From across the table, Jay grins. But Catherine eyes me as if she’s not entirely sure I’m joking before resuming her lesson. “This place has eighty-three floors aboveground and—”

  The architecture trivia game ends when the door opens and a tall, disheveled man rushes into the room, a bit breathless. He looks to be about forty. He rakes a hand through his dark hair and straightens his tie. “Hey, everyone,” he calls, moving to the table. “I’m Brad Midar. Sorry to have kept you waiting.” He strides around the table and shakes each of our hands as we introduce ourselves. The intensity of his gaze is tempered by a slight overlap of his front teeth, lending him an authentic, boyish charm. I wonder if my siblings are thinking what I’m thinking. Why did Mother hire this young guy, a complete stranger, rather than Mr. Goldblatt, who’s been our family attorney for years?

  “I just came from a meeting across town,” Midar says and finds his chair at the head of the table, kitty-corner from me. “I didn’t expect it to run so late.”

  He drops a manila file folder on the table. I glance at Catherine, poised to take notes with her legal pad and pen, and cringe. Why didn’t I think to take notes? How the hell am I going to run an entire company when I can’t even remember my legal pad?

  Mr. Midar clears his throat. “Let me begin by saying how sorry I am for your loss. I liked Elizabeth very much. We met just last May, right after she was diagnosed, but somehow I feel as if I knew her for years. I wasn’t able to stay long at the luncheon yester
day, but I did attend her funeral. I like to think I was there as her friend, not as her lawyer.”

  I immediately like this busy attorney who found time to attend my mother’s funeral—a woman he knew a scant sixteen weeks. I think of the lawyer in my life, my boyfriend Andrew, who knew my mother for four years, yet couldn’t clear his schedule to attend yesterday’s luncheon. I push back the ache in my chest. He was in the middle of a trial, after all. And he did break away for the funeral.

  “Having said that,” Mr. Midar continues, “I’m honored to be the executor of her estate. Shall we begin?”

  An hour later, my mother’s favorite charities are substantially more solvent, and Jay and Joad Bohlinger are worth enough money to spend the rest of their days in idle folly. How had Mother managed to accumulate such wealth?

  “Brett Bohlinger is to collect her inheritance at a later date.” Mr. Midar removes his reading glasses and looks over at me. “There’s an asterisk here. I’ll explain this in detail later.”

  “Okay,” I say, literally scratching my head. Why wouldn’t Mom give me my inheritance today? Maybe she’ll explain in that little red journal she left me. And then it dawns on me. I’m getting the entire company, which today is worth millions. But God only knows how it’ll fare under my leadership. A dull ache kicks at my temples.

  “Next is your mother’s home.” He plants his reading glasses on his nose and finds his place on the document. “One Thirteen North Astor Street and all of its contents are to remain intact for twelve months. Neither the structure nor its contents are to be sold or leased during this time. My children may inhabit the home not longer than thirty consecutive days, and are welcome to utilize household items for their personal use.”

  “Seriously?” Joad says, staring at Mr. Midar. “We’ve got our own homes. There’s no need to keep hers.”

  I feel my face burn and turn my attention to my cuticles. Obviously, my brother thinks I’m co-owner of the loft I share with Andrew. Even though I’ve lived there since Andrew bought it three years ago, and have more money invested in it than he does, I’m not on the title. Technically, it’s his. And I’m okay with that, for the most part. Money’s never been an issue for me, the way it’s been with Andrew.

  “Bro, it’s Mom’s will,” Jay says in his usual good-natured tone. “We need to respect her wishes.”

  Joad shakes his head. “Well, it’s nuts. Twelve months of outrageous taxes. Not to mention the maintenance on the old relic.”

  Joad inherited our father’s emotional temperament—decisive, pragmatic, and devoid of sentimentality. His impassive nature can be helpful, like last week when we were making funeral arrangements. But today it feels disrespectful. Left to his own devices, Joad would probably plant a FOR SALE sign in Mom’s yard and a dumpster in her driveway by day’s end. Instead, we’ll have time to sift through her belongings and thoughtfully say good-bye to pieces of her, one at a time. It’s too traditional for Andrew’s taste, but it’s possible one of my brothers could even decide to keep her treasured property permanently.

  The same year I left for Northwestern, Mom bought the tumbledown brownstone when it went into foreclosure. My father chided her, told her she was nuts to take on such an enormous project. But he was her ex-husband by then. Mother was free to make her own decisions. She saw something magical beyond the rotted ceilings and smelly carpets. It took years of hard work and self-denial, but eventually her vision and patience prevailed. Today the nineteenth-century building, located in Chicago’s coveted Gold Coast neighborhood, is a showpiece. My mother, the daughter of a steelworker, used to tease that she was like Louise Jefferson, having “moved on up” from her hometown of Gary, Indiana. I wish my father had lived long enough to witness the spectacular transformation of the house—and the woman—I felt he’d always underestimated.

  “Are you sure she was of sound mind when she made this will?” Joad asks.

  I see something conspiratorial in the attorney’s grin. “Oh, she was of sound mind, all right. Let me assure you, your mother knew exactly what she was doing. In fact, I’ve never seen such elaborate planning.”

  “Let’s continue,” Catherine says, ever the manager. “We’ll deal with the house on our own time.”

  Mr. Midar clears his throat. “Okay, shall we move on to Bohlinger Cosmetics now?”

  My head throbs and I feel four pairs of eyes on me. Yesterday’s scene resurfaces and I’m frozen with panic. What kind of CEO gets drunk at her mother’s funeral luncheon? I don’t deserve this honor. But it’s too late now. Like an actress nominated for an Academy Award, I try to make my face a picture of neutrality. Catherine sits with her pen poised, waiting to take down every last detail of the business offering. I’d better get used to it. Subordinate or not, the woman’s going to keep watch on me for the rest of my career.

  “All of my shares of Bohlinger Cosmetics, as well as the title of chief executive officer, will go to my daughter—”

  Act naturally. Keep your eyes off Catherine.

  “—in-law,” I hear, as if I’m hallucinating. “Catherine Humphries-Bohlinger.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “What the hell?” I ask aloud. In a flash, I realize I’ve lost the damn Oscar, and to my horror I’m not the least bit gracious. In fact, I’m unabashedly pissed.

  Midar looks at me over his tortoiseshell frames. “I’m sorry? Would you like me to repeat that?”

  “Y-yes,” I stammer, my eyes traveling from one family member to the next, hoping for a show of support. Jay’s eyes are sympathetic, but Joad can’t even look at me. He’s doodling on his legal pad, his jaw twitching manically. And Catherine, well, she really could have been an actress, because the look of incredulity on her face is completely believable.

  Mr. Midar leans nearer to me and speaks deliberately, as if I’m his infirm old grandmother. “Your mother’s shares of Bohlinger Cosmetics will go to your sister-in-law, Catherine.” He holds out the official document for me to see. “You’ll each get a copy of this, but you’re welcome to read mine now.”

  I scowl and wave him off, trying my damnedest to breathe. “No. Thank you,” I manage. “Continue. Please. I’m sorry.” I slouch into my chair and bite my lip to keep it from trembling. There must be a mistake. I … I’ve worked so hard. I wanted to make her proud. Did Catherine set me up? No, she’d never be that cruel.

  “That about wraps up this part of the process,” he tells us. “I do have one private matter to discuss with Brett.” He looks at me. “Do you have time now, or shall we arrange to meet another day?”

  I’m lost in a fog, struggling to make my way out. “Today’s fine,” someone says in a voice that sounds like mine.

  “Okay, then.” He scans the faces at the table. “Any questions before we adjourn?”

  “We’re all set,” Joad says. He rises from his chair and searches for the door like a prisoner going for the break.

  Catherine checks her phone for messages and Jay rushes to Midar, full of gratitude. He glances at me but quickly averts his eyes. My bro feels sheepish, no doubt. And I feel sick. The only one familiar to me is Shelley, with her unruly brown curls and soft gray eyes. She opens her arms and pulls me into a hug. Not even Shelley knows what to say to me.

  In turns, my sibs shake Mr. Midar’s hand while I sit silent in my chair like the naughty student who’s been kept after class. As soon as they leave, Midar closes the door. When it shuts, it’s so silent I can hear the swish of blood as it races past my temples. He returns to his seat at the head of the table, so that we form a right angle. His face is smooth and tan, and his brown eyes softly incongruent with his angular features.

  “You doing all right?” he asks me, as if he actually wants an answer. We must be paying him by the hour.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. Poor, motherless, and humiliated, but fine. Just fine.

  “Your mother worried that today would be especially hard on you.”

  “Really?” I say with a bitter little cackle. “She
thought it might upset me to be written out of her will?”

  He pats my hand. “That’s not entirely true.”

  “Her only daughter, and I get nothing. Nada. Not even a token piece of furniture. I’m her daughter, damn it.”

  I yank my hand from his and bury it on my lap. When I lower my gaze, it lands on my emerald ring, meanders up to my Rolex watch, and eventually falls on my Cartier Trinity bracelet. I look up and see something resembling disgust darken Mr. Midar’s lovely face.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m selfish and spoiled. You think this is about money, or power.” My throat tightens. “The thing is, yesterday all I wanted was her bed. That’s it. I just wanted her old antique …” I rub the knot in my throat. “Bed … so I could curl up and feel her …”

  To my horror, I begin to weep. Dainty at first, my whimpers turn into misshapen, blustery sobs. Midar races to his desk in search of tissues. He hands me one and pats my back while I fight to regain my composure. “I’m sorry,” I croak. “This is all … very hard for me.”

  “I understand.” The shadow that crosses his face makes me think he really might.

  I dab my eyes on the tissue. One deep breath. Now another. “Okay,” I say, teetering on the edge of composure. “You said you had some business to discuss.”

  He pulls a second manila file from a leather portfolio and places it on the table before me. “Elizabeth had something different in mind for you.”

  He opens the file and hands me a piece of yellowed notebook paper. I stare at it. The mosaic creases tell me it had once been wadded into a tight little ball. “What’s this?”

  “A life list,” he tells me. “Your life list.”

  It takes several seconds before I recognize that this is, indeed, my handwriting. My flowery, fourteen-year-old handwriting. Apparently I’d written a life list, though I have no recollection of it. Beside certain goals, I spy my mother’s handwritten commentary.